


The Edge Is What She Has

by awomannotagirl



Series: her one wild and precious life [2]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, F/F, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Voyeurism, consent is terribly sexy, porn that definitely has feelings though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9061018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awomannotagirl/pseuds/awomannotagirl
Summary: If Miranda is not satisfied unless she lives at the edge of a cliff, Andy is not satisfied unless Miranda is dangling her over it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I hesitated to post this because really, it's just sex. But then, what can possibly be more meaningful than _just_ sex? Yes, it's smut; I think—I hope—it's also a fairly deep excavation of my version of this couple. 
> 
> Also, I like smut. You do too or you wouldn't have read this far. Merry xmas.
> 
> (Title is more or less from Roethke's “In a Dark Time.”)

Andy has a job—that is, paid employment, at a reputable newspaper, where she has duties and responsibilities and produces quality work on deadline. But for many months after she first comes to Miranda, her real work is done naked, in Miranda’s bed. (Or on Miranda’s couch or desk or dining-room table.) Her vocation is satisfying Miranda’s unslakeable need to fuck and suck and stroke and lick and bite. 

One day, apropos of nothing, Miranda says with the studied casualness that signifies great formality, I’d like to show you off.

What?

I have a circle of friends—there’s just a few of us. We are all in positions that make it difficult ... We are not people who can usually have what we want. So we … share.

Share? Andy knows by now that in the decades Miranda has been a public figure she has had a few outlets for her needs, a very few and very rare. She knows that Miranda has made expensive connections with organizations she’s unwilling to call sex clubs, though they are. She’s paid handsomely for discretion and short memories. It seems unbearably sad to Andy; this at least sounds like something human.

Oh, I’m not sharing _you_. No one else will touch you. But it would please me greatly to be able to show off what I’ve finally found.

 _Show you off._ Will you want me to take my clothes off?

A beat of silence. If you will.

Will you want me—do you want to touch me? In front of them?

Yes.

Fuck me in front of them?

Yes. Miranda’s eyes flit down and then back up to Andy’s, and she adds, I would very much like to.

It isn’t _please_. Miranda rarely says please. But it is, for her, extremely close. 

The silence stretches while Andy thinks through what Miranda’s asking—what it might actually feel like, what it might mean. It is a thing she would never have considered not so very long ago, that she would have been shocked even to be asked to consider. But her understanding of what she’s willing to do has expanded dramatically, and continues to expand, whenever Miranda suggests something new. 

She finally says, All right. The expression on Miranda’s face (a mixture of relief, satisfaction, anticipation, and lust, all contained in a minute curve of her mouth and the arch of her eyebrow) is worth nearly anything. The hot thrill Andy feels is half the pleasure of pleasing Miranda, half the thought of what she’ll be doing to please her.  
  
  
  
For the next weeks it becomes a part of their sex life. Miranda will have Andy on her knees in front of her, two fingers in her ass and three in her cunt, and she’ll say, in that low growl reserved for fuck-talk, Do you know how beautiful this is? This looks incredible, Andrea, gorgeous, my God, I could watch you take my fingers all day every day for the rest of my life, and everyone who sees this is going to want you … And Andy will arch, push her knees out and her hips up, showing Miranda and her invisible audience even more. 

Or they will be lying in bed, talking, enjoying the feel of each other’s skin, and Miranda will cup a breast in her hand and say, I will never get enough of these. Look at these, everyone (to the imaginary watchers). Perfect. And this (trailing down to her belly, holding possessively). Everything about your body. So lush. This (now opening Andy’s lips with her fingers) pretty clit. Everyone wants it. Everyone wants to touch it. But it’s mine.

It’s yours, Andy breathes. I’m yours. She spreads and preens and poses and aches, and though it’s a fantasy she never had on her own it’s incredibly exciting to share it with her lover.

Then the day of the party arrives, and with it, a return of some of the original anxiety. On the way over, Andy begins to feel nervous. Up to this point, what they’ll be doing this afternoon has been a hazy, private turn-on. Will I know these people?

Miranda nods. Most of them, I suppose. You might not know their faces, but you’d know their names.

And they’re all bringing … someone?

Only the lucky ones. Miranda turns and pierces her with her look: all the more powerful because of the love and hunger in it. Some of them have boys, some have girls. A corner of her lip turns up. No one but me has a woman.

Andy isn’t sure what to think of that, exactly. Part of her wants to object that Miranda doesn’t _have_ her, as if she were a painting or a sofa. But another, more brutally honest part of herself acknowledges that though she is certainly not a thing, she is certainly Miranda’s. Miranda’s woman. And she likes it.

Miranda has been looking out the window, as if slightly though elegantly bored. Presently, however, she says, You know, Andrea—all you need is one word.

Andy reaches out, touches Miranda’s cheek. She doesn’t need the reminder, but it moves her that Miranda provides it. I know.

Miranda looks at her then, her eyes suspiciously bright. Don’t do anything you don’t want to do.

I never do.  
  
  
  
The gathering is at an impeccable, gorgeously furnished apartment with a huge living room overlooking Central Park. It is, to all appearances, an afternoon cocktail party like any other. The guests, though, are recognizable faces—at least, many of them are. There is another contingent unknown to her but mostly quite young and universally beautiful. She is a little overwhelmed at first, even intimidated, but Miranda’s hand on the small of her back, Miranda’s obvious pride and delight settle her down.

She has a drink, then a second drink. Then she switches to sparkling water. She doesn’t want alcohol to dictate how she behaves, but it’s nice to take the edge off the anxiety.

An hour or so in, she has met the people Miranda wants her to meet, she has suitably impressed them (or so she gathers from Miranda’s subtle pleasure). She is even getting a little bored; this party has turned out to be ridiculously sedate, given what she knows its purpose is. Then Miranda takes her hand and leads her out of the living room, down the hall.

They enter a much smaller room, this one soft and comfortable and low-lit. There are perhaps a dozen others here already, all women. Andy deliberately doesn’t look around, doesn’t look at faces. She doesn’t want them to be anything but an interested blur.

Miranda, says one, sitting in an armchair. She’s exquisite. Where have you been keeping her.

To myself, Miranda answers. She smiles at Andy, puts her hands on Andy’s hips.

Andy feels the focus of the room shift. Suddenly they are at the center, though they haven’t moved. She’d expected to feel exposed, embarrassed perhaps, vulnerable; she’d expected to have to force herself through this experience for Miranda’s sake. But the attention is gentle. It’s wondering and admiring rather than lascivious, and to her surprise she likes it.

My darling, Miranda murmurs, and brushes a kiss to her lips. 

She walks around Andy, keeping a hand on her body, and when she stops behind her she traces her fingers down Andy’s neck, to the zipper of her dress. The room is quiet enough that the burr of the metal teeth is the loudest thing in it.

Miranda reaches around, taking the shoulders of the dress in her hands and pulling slowly. It’s like Andy is a present being carefully unwrapped. The material pulls down past her nipples, and there is a noticeable indrawing of breath around the room; Andy lets herself smile. This is why Miranda hadn’t wanted her to wear a bra. 

Miranda leaves the dress bunched at Andy’s waist and pulls them close, running her hands up Andy’s body, taking her breasts in her hands. She simply holds, squeezing gently, for a moment, then one at a time takes the nipples in her fingers, rolling, pinching softly, hardening them and then slipping her hands under the swell of breast, presenting. Andy arches her back just a little, just enough to make herself a display, and she hears Miranda purr in approval.

Then the hands return to the dress and push it further, over Andy’s hips, down onto her thighs, and then it drops to the floor. Andy steps out of it, kicking it to the side.

She’s wearing a rather gorgeous garter belt and stockings. She’d thought it was a bit much, but it’s clearly appreciated. Miranda unclips them, one clasp at a time, deliberately, then pushes her panties down past the tops of the stockings. She leaves them on Andy’s thighs and clips the garters back on, as slowly and methodically as she had taken them off. Now, she says, barely above a whisper, spread as far as you can.

Andy moves her feet apart. The panties restrain her, but she’s able to get her feet to about the width of her hips. She is acutely aware of all of the breathing in the room, though she doesn’t look around. Miranda traces her fingers down the curve of Andy’s ass, touches and then parts her labia, slides to the mouth of her cunt. Wet already, she says approvingly.

Andy merely lets her head fall back a bit more.

Miranda circles her fingers around the entrance, making sure that everyone hears the sounds of fingertips in wet flesh.

Andy can’t help a gasp of her own, and her eyes flutter closed. 

Then Miranda comes around to the front of her again, and says, There is a chaise behind you. Sit down. So Andy does—a tiny voice inside worrying about her juices on what is obviously an expensively upholstered item—and Miranda pulls the restraining panties off and drops them.

Now, Miranda says, scoot back. And lie back onto the cushions. Again Andy obeys, locking eyes with Miranda, whose face is calm but lit with desire.

Now show me, Miranda says. Andy knows just what she means; Miranda has made this request often enough. Andy lifts her feet to the sides of the cushion she lies on, and she opens her legs.

Mmm. Miranda makes an appreciative, hungry noise in her throat as she examines Andy spread in front of her, offering her flushed and swollen cunt.

There is a rustle in the rest of the room, as the observers move to places where they can see. Miranda, perhaps to allow a better view, perhaps just to be closer herself, kneels at the end of the chaise between Andy’s feet. She is again looking into Andy’s eyes, and Andy reads her delight. 

Andy herself is feeling an immense swell of—pride? There is a thrill she hadn’t expected from the eyes devouring her, but mostly what she feels is the warm joy of pleasing Miranda. Take me, she says, low. You know I’m yours.

I know, Miranda says. She reaches out, spreading Andy’s lips further with her thumbs, and for a long moment just holds her open. Andy can feel the muscles of her cunt contracting rhythmically, involuntarily under Miranda’s gaze, and she sees the slight smile on Miranda’s lips as she watches. 

Then Miranda slips two fingers into Andy. She’s wet and ready and Miranda’s fingers slide easily in and out; Andy immediately wants more, but Miranda has told her that she wants her silent. All she can do is lift her hips into Miranda’s moving hand and plead with her eyes.

Miranda smiles more widely. She knows what Andy wants so badly, and she is not giving it to her. She wants Andy showing her desperation. She fucks her shallowly, just enough so that Andy can feel her fingers moving over her receptive inner walls, in and out of her acutely sensitive opening, not enough to satisfy her.

Andy drops her head back to the cushions, breathing hard. She begins to mewl a little with every non-thrust, her face twisting. You want more? Miranda asks. You need more?

Andy nods. There are tears in the corners of her eyes and she moves her lips soundlessly, heeding Miranda’s firm earlier instruction.

Miranda pulls her fingers out completely, and Andy can’t stop herself from crying out. Her eyes fly wide open and she watches as Miranda slowly licks her fingers, then wets a third. Finally, Miranda places her other hand on Andy’s belly, just above her mound, and thrusts the three fingers in.

Andy cries out again, a different sound, deeper. Miranda starts to fuck her like she means it, strong, quick, steady strokes. She lets the thumb of her other hand drift down and touch Andy’s clit, just a flick every three or four strokes, bringing her higher but not taking her over.

Miranda’s hand is shoving Andy’s body back with each thrust, and Andy is using her legs to increase the movement and the power of the fingers inside her. Andy’s breasts shake with each thrust as well, swaying to Miranda’s rhythm. 

She wants to come for Miranda; she always wants to come for Miranda. She loves how much Miranda loves it. She knows, she’s known from the first, that it’s a gift for her lover as much as it’s her own pleasure. She realizes suddenly that she also wants to come for these people. These strangers. She wants to show them what Miranda does to her. 

Miranda begins to feel Andy tightening around her. She fucks and gauges and pushes Andy closer and closer and then, abruptly, she stops. She looks at Andy, who sobs in frustration, and grins. Oh, not yet, my darling, she says. She pulls her fingers out again, this time offering them to Andy to lick.

Andy lets go of her thighs, which she has been holding apart, and sucks her wetness off Miranda’s fingers. Miranda leans over, kisses Andy’s belly, and reaches under the chaise.

Then she pats Andy’s inner thigh. Feet on the ground, sweetheart. Bring yourself down here to the edge of the chair, and lie back.

Andy does what Miranda asks, not even wondering what she is up to. Miranda will do it, whatever it is, and Andy will take it. That was her promise for the day. That, if she is honest, is her enduring promise every day. She lies back, lays her head down, closes her eyes. She can feel the intense attention of the room and she’s not sure she likes it, but she responds to it.

She hears the snap of a glove. Oh—it’s going to be _that_. Her breath quickens and she feels just a frisson of anxiety.

Miranda must sense what she is thinking. She puts her palm on Andy’s pubic mound, strokes her lips with her thumb. It’ll be fine, darling. Just relax. There’s no pressure. You’ll take what you can take.

This is so un-Miranda that Andy actually giggles, but it is also comforting, and she does manage to relax a bit. Then she feels Miranda’s smooth, gloved fingers spreading lube at her opening, and all around for good measure. 

Then, gloriously, Miranda is inside her again. This fucking is different: Miranda is now twisting slowly, thrusting only gently, staying deep inside and urging her to open even more. And Andy does, she can’t help it; she wants more and more and more. She breathes deeply, concentrates on falling open. 

Miranda pulls out just far enough to add her fourth finger, and then she’s back inside, turning her hand from side to side, stretching, pushing, insisting. A cool slipperiness slides onto and into Andy where Miranda’s hand moves: more lube. As slow and gentle as they are, Miranda’s movements inside her smack and slap wetly.

Andy puts her hands up above her head, finds the back of the chaise, pushes. She moans as Miranda fills and fills her. She feels Miranda’s thumb squeezing the most sensitive tissue in her cunt against her pubic bone, Miranda’s knuckles pushing at an opening too small for them, and as good as all this pressure feels she has the thought she always does at this point: This. Is. Not. Possible.

Somehow her disbelief opens her up, because it is at that moment that Miranda’s knuckles pop white-hot past that insurmountable obstacle and oh God her hand is inside, her whole hand, and Andy is full full full, it feels like her entire body is full of Miranda, and the sound she makes is wild and unrecognizable.

There is a murmur out in the room. Miranda stills her hand inside Andy and lets her adjust to the stretch and the burn and the sensation of being entirely possessed. Andy slowly, shakily, moves her own hands down and places them on her abdomen just over where Miranda’s hand rests inside. She feels her muscles flexing, clutching, and Miranda draws her breath in sharply. Andy knows that if she opened her eyes, she’d see that Miranda is smiling in wonder.

Then Andy nods, just a bit, and Miranda moves her hand, just a bit, and waves of intense sensation flood her, one after the other. She’s breathing in short, sharp pants. She can’t fill her lungs but she couldn’t hold her breath if she wanted to. This is it: this is as much as she can give, as completely as she can be taken. Miranda moves again, and again, beginning a rhythm, and Andy’s entire body moves with her. She can feel the fullness of her cunt in her chest and her throat and behind her eyes. 

She can hear Miranda murmuring to her but she can only catch disjointed phrases: sweet love, so beautiful, so good. Then: Touch yourself, darling.

When Andy comes it’s monstrous but quiet. Her mouth opens and opens but she doesn’t make a sound.

Oh my love, Miranda says. My love. Andy has already collapsed, unable to hold onto any of the tension that vibrated through her only a moment before. When Miranda draws her hand out, as slowly and gently as she can, Andy weeps. The flip side of that extraordinary feeling of completion is this unbearable emptiness. Miranda knows. She takes her in her arms and whispers: My love. My love.  
  
  
  
In the car on the way home, they’re both quiet, but it’s an intense, connected, buzzing quiet. Miranda holds Andy’s hand. This is unusual, but what they’ve just done is out of the universe. Andy is still a little dazed. She thinks Miranda must have dressed her, because she sure wasn’t capable of that much coordinated effort. 

Andy breaks the silence at last. Did you get that on video?

Of course, Miranda says. There’s ordinarily a very strict rule about taking images of any kind, but I got permission from the group. She hesitates. Do you want to see it?

Andy ponders this. Not right now, she says, but maybe sometime. She shifts on the seat. She cannot imagine ever being turned on again. At the same time, she can’t imagine needing anything. She’s complete. 

Miranda puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. Andy leans her head onto Miranda and closes her eyes. She is exhausted. If I’d known you were going to do that, she says drowsily, I might not have gone with you.

I thought you might not. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Miranda sounds unrepentant. A moment later, though, she goes on: I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t felt ready. And you know you could have ...

Stopped it. Yes. Andy smiles into Miranda’s neck. 

They ride on for a few minutes in silence, the car smooth and powerful as it glides across the park. Then Andy asks, Don’t you ever worry?

All the time, Miranda says. Deadlines. Advertisers. The price of paper. 

Andy slaps her lightly on the thigh. About this, she says. About ... I mean, there are hours of video of us. Digital video. And today, all those people. 

They have as much to lose as I do, Miranda says composedly. There is a fierce light in her eye, though, and the curve of her mouth has triumph in it, as if she’s won some enormous private wager.

It’s so risky, Andy says. 

Of course, Miranda answers. She shifts so that she is looking directly at Andy, and she draws her nails gently up Andy’s neck, into her hair. But if I didn’t risk, what would I have? I have chosen to trust. I think I’ve chosen well. 

Andy likes to think so too, but she also knows it’s not that simple. Miranda has pushed far beyond placing her faith in a single person’s discretion. Sleeping with a younger woman—embarrassing, if it were aired publicly, but no more than a nine days’ wonder. Nothing Miranda couldn’t tough out; not, these days, a career-ender. But some of the things they have not only done but made records of ...

You don’t have to risk video, Andy says, leaning her head back into Miranda’s nails on her scalp. You don’t have to risk what we did today.

Miranda is quiet for a long moment, her eyes focused elsewhere. Yes, she says at last, I do.

That’s as much explanation as she’s ever going to get, Andy suspects. And it is exactly what she already knows.

Then the car pulls up in front of Miranda’s house. As they walk up the front steps Miranda stops, a step up from Andy and so for the moment a few inches taller. You are trusting me also, she says quietly. You don’t have to.

Andy smiles up at her. Miranda might be talking, at this moment, about public exposure, but that is the very least Andy trusts her with. She trusts Miranda with her body, her safety, her pleasure, her dignity, her heart. And if Miranda is not satisfied unless she lives at the edge of a cliff, Andy has discovered that she is not satisfied unless Miranda is dangling her over it.

Yes, Andy says, I do.


End file.
